


Surviving Christmas

by lola381pce



Category: Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Airplane Crashes, Assets & Handlers, Bare chests, Chest Hair, Clint Needs a Hug, Crash Landing, Death, Desert Island Fic, Feelstide, Feelstide 2016, First Christmas, First Crush, First Mission, Fluff and Angst, I'm sorry - the boys just kept getting up to things, Little Debbie powdered donuts make a special appearance, M/M, Naked chest, Phil Needs a Hug, Serious Injuries, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-10 16:47:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,236
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8924644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lola381pce/pseuds/lola381pce
Summary: Feelside 2016 Prompt (57)When a storm sends their plane crashing and leaves their fellow agents dead, Agent Coulson and the new rookie asset (Clint) need to survive on an uninhabited island and hope for rescue. It turns out that with their backgrounds and resourceful skillsets, this is not as hard as they would have thought. In fact, it's almost a vacation; the good Lord knows Phil could use one. And hey, the company can't be beat.BonusBonus if their fellow agents at S.H.I.E.L.D., while hoping they're alive somewhere, are placing bets on how long it takes before Coulson kills Barton for annoying him too much in a crisis situation.





	

**Author's Note:**

> My first Feelside entry - I hope I met the prompt (and the bonus). I did intend for this to be around 5000 words so please forgive me now that it's more than double that - the boys just kept getting up to stuff and I couldn't stop them.

**18th December…**  
He picked this seat specifically. Here he could see without being seen. And the view couldn't be beat. The plane was just at the right angle to catch the flashes of lightning through the window as they lit up the contours of Agent Coulson’s face in an eerie silvery glow. Shit, the guy was hot!

The older man appeared lost in thought as he looked out at the storm unaware S.H.I.E.L.D.’s new rookie asset, one Clinton Francis Barton, was viewing him with the warm and fuzzies tingling in his stomach. He reached out and touched his fingertips to the window as the raindrops chased each other across the glass leaving erratic trails in their wake. For a moment his frown of concentration lifted and the corner of his mouth quirked up in a slight smile. On the other side of the cabin Clint bit his lip to stifle a groan. So very fucking hot.

He’d been crushing on Coulson since the start of the mission - actually since the initial mission briefing - and crushing hard. He shivered at the thought of Coulson’s quiet competence as he took control, signalling for the briefing packs to be handed round while they watched archived video footage and discussed the parameters of the op; target details, known security arrangements, surrounding terrain, risks and hazards that had so far been identified and the measures put in place to control them. And at the end of it all the senior agent had listened to feedback from everyone on the team acknowledging what they had to say with a nod and a scratch of pen in his notebook... including him. That was a first.

The seeds of his crush had been sown that day taking root until they blossomed into full-grown lust upon hearing Coulson’s voice in his ear talking him through the op while the sniper provided cover for the agents in the field. The voice which made his dick sit up and take notice and his mouth run away from him. Initially he thought he’d never be able to concentrate enough to do his job but when Coulson called for quiet on comms, all his training kicked in and his mind became fully alert, ready to follow any order given.

As it turned out he wasn’t needed but that didn’t seem to matter to Coulson. He congratulated Clint as much as he did anyone else on a job well done. He didn’t even call him on the non-stop bullshit he was talking in his ear. Well he did but in a dry, amused kind of way, not in the ‘ _You’re on report, Barton_ ’ way like he usually got from his handlers... before he was passed on to the next one.

He smirked as he thought about it, his hand reaching for the back of his neck in an awkward self-conscious gesture. When he looked up, Coulson’s eyes were on him a soft smile playing round his lips. Aww fuck no!

And then they were dropping like a stone. No warning. No control. Just a blinding flash followed by a sudden explosion then the cabin going dark as they fell the fuck out of the sky.

In the chaos Clint felt his eardrums popping, small and frequent, like popcorn on the stove… pop, pop, pop. Seconds later he became aware that the oxygen masks had deployed from above - the cabin was depressurising. Through a flash of lightning he caught a glimpse of one dangling in front of him. He reached up to catch it as it swung back and forth and pulled the strap over his head taking huge gulps of air into his lungs. Through it all the plane tumbled and rolled, plunging ever downwards; groans building into shrieks as forces tore at the structural integrity of the bodywork.

The next thing he remembered was waking up in agony. Merry fucking Christmas! Oh yeah… they’d crashed on December 18th, the week before Christmas. Ho! Ho! Ho!

 **S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ - The Hub**  
Fury wafted into the control room his full-length leather coat flapping majestically behind him.

“Say again,” he demanded of the nearest comms tech. The tech’s eyes widened and he stumbled over his report. Fury sighed and turned away. He needed someone who could be coherent right now. Hill appeared silently at his side; back ramrod straight, hands clasped behind her back. Reassuringly competent.

“At approximately 23:42hrs we lost contact with the aircraft, sir.”

“Explain _lost contact_.”

“Literally that. A storm appeared pretty much out of nowhere. The pilot radioed to advise they were going to climb to try and avoid it. The plane started its assent when it just dropped. There was no mayday. No further communication at all before it disappeared from our radar.”

“It was definitely a storm? A _real_ storm?”

“There was no trace of alien or earth weaponry detected, sir.”

Fury was quiet as he glared at Hill. She knew he was going over every possible scenario in his head and none of them seemed to have a good ending. She knew because she'd done exactly the same thing.

“Find me my people,” he instructed before wafting back out of the control room.

The comms tech breathed out a sigh of relief and relaxed back into his chair before letting out a tiny scream as Hill whispered next to his ear, “You’re going to have to grow a pair before his next visit. I might not be here to save your ass next time.”

 

 **19th December...**  
Phil opened his eyes… and wished he hadn’t. Everything ached. From the open wound above his right eyebrow to his left ankle which, like his shoulder, appeared to have been wrenched sometime between falling and impact. He slowly finished cataloguing his injuries as best he could from the confines of his seat and concluded he was in great shape… if great shape included a headache that wouldn’t quit, and some serious bruising on his - pretty much everywhere - not to mention pain in every muscle from his neck to his ass. However he knew he was lucky to be alive. Unlike the aircraft which was missing the aft section of the main cabin where four other agents had been located. He didn’t dwell on that fact for too long realising its terrible implications.

He shifted his gaze (ow! and apparently even his eyeballs hurt) to where Barton had been sitting and, thank god, there he was. His oxygen mask had been torn from his face and he was half out of his seat but other than that he couldn't really tell from this position. He resolved to check on the rookie as soon as he was able and pray in the meantime that he was okay. However first of all he had to make sure he was still functioning before helping anyone else.

He unfastened his lap belt and promptly fell onto the seat opposite Barton with a pained grunt before hitting the floor. Awesome! In hindsight he should probably have held onto something first; it was kinda late to remember he was in totally the wrong position to just open the lap belt and not expect consequences. A warm trickle of blood began to flow from the open wound on his brow and his ribs ached all over again. Well, that was just peachy.

Carefully he crawled over the debris to Barton and examined his wrist for a pulse; thankfully it was steady. Phil looked him over as best he could not wanting to risk moving the specialist, especially his spine, without assistance or without him being conscious at least. There didn’t appear to be any breaks that he could tell. Other than various nasty cuts, a multitude of bruises that were beginning to appear along with a knot the size of a duck egg on the back of his head, he seemed to have survived relatively unscathed. He wouldn’t know for sure until Barton was awake but for now things seemed… okay.

Realising there was nothing he could do, Phil was torn between looking for the others and waiting with Barton. While he was reasonably certain of the younger man's status, he had no idea about his other agents. They could be in need of urgent medical assistance or beyond help of any kind. Right now he had no way to be certain but as a certified field medic from his time in the Rangers he knew the quicker they were found, the better. The down side was, depending where the aft section had broken off, they could be anywhere. And he couldn’t leave Barton, the one person he knew for certain was alive, on his own.

He also needed to investigate the rest of the forward section of the aircraft and check on the crew. Their chances of survival were slim but he had to make sure.

He cautiously made his way to the edge of the fuselage and looked back to where their section had apparently impacted leaving a trail of smashed vegetation and debris. How the fuck had he and Barton even survived? Some fifty or so feet away was the rest of the plane. It was only fifty feet. If he could drop down to the ground, he could be there and back in no time but… how did he get back up? It wouldn’t be easy but he thought he could manage it on his own however he also knew he as running on adrenaline right now. In half an hour he might need all the help he could get.

Fuck! Considering his options, such as they were, he chose to remain where he was at least until Barton was awake.

Decision made, Phil began a careful recon of the forward section. First stop was the cabin to check on the crew members - it wasn’t a commercial flight and the pilots were S.H.I.E.L.D. so the door wasn’t locked. There was no need to be thorough in his examination; as he had feared, it was painfully obvious neither of them had made it. His other hope, that they’d be able to use the flight comms system, was also dashed - he was no engineer but it looked completely destroyed. With a sigh, he shut the door over just in time to hear a yell from the main cabin behind.

***

Clint started awake and groaned as the pain washed over him. Tentatively, he tried to get into a more comfortable position but it was a lost cause. Everything hurt. It must have been some fucking party last night cuz right now he could swear he was in a busted up airplane looking at the jungle. The fuck? And then it all came back to him in a vivid flashback making him cry out and attempt to get out of his seat, tugging ineffectively at the lap belt as he tried desperately to get free.

“Barton? Barton! CLINT! Eyes on me.”

Still struggling, he looked up into Coulson’s concerned blue eyes. There was a shit load of blood caked to the side of his handler’s head along with some fresh stuff seeping from an ugly wound on his brow... it must be fucking real then.

“You’re alive, Barton. I’ve got you. You’re safe now.” _Safe is probably a bit of stretch_ thought Phil placing his hands on top of Clint’s gently folding them into his. The contact seemed to do the trick and the rookie stopped fighting his confines long enough to take a few deep breaths. He turned his face away from his handler’s intense gaze ashamed that he freaked out so badly. It was only the other man’s touch that was helping calm down.

Phil gave him a few moments to centre himself before he started asking questions making notes in his head on the sniper’s reactions. “Barton, talk to me. Are you in any pain?”

Unable to help himself Clint tilted his head and gave him a look that was all sass. “I don’t know how many thousand feet but… we just fell the fuck outta the sky, boss. No shit I’m in pain.”

Phil grinned despite himself. Smartass! But he’d been warned. _Barton’s good. Great. Probably the best sharpshooter we’ve ever had. But that mouth of his!_ However, the sniper’s attitude was actually reassuring right now. Kind of.

“Taking your time looking into my eyes there, sir. Beginning to wonder if you see something you like.” For the record, Coulson’s blue eyes were even more gorgeous close up. And the fuck? Did he really say that first bit out loud?

Phil’s face was carefully blank. “As a matter of fact I do.”

Clint swallowed. If he tilted his chin, just a little...

“Both pupils are equal and responsive which, along with your smartass comments, leads me to believe your head is the best place you could have been injured, Agent Barton. Now if you’re quite finished perhaps you can let me complete assessing you and we can get out of here.”

***

After explaining the situation Phil and Clint had walked, or in Phil’s case limped to the aft section. When they reached it Clint had carefully given him a boost allowing him to drag himself into the wreckage. He winced as the muscles of his damaged shoulder screamed in protest. He sat for a second to catch his breath, his legs dangling from the fuselage.

“Sir?” Clint called from below. The ‘are you okay’ wasn’t said but heavily implied.

“Wait here,” Phil instructed and pulled himself inside. He’d already told the sniper he’d check the plane first. There had been a minor argument with Clint telling Coulson he’d seen dead bodies before. Even caused more than a few. Coulson’s response had been that these were colleagues. Sometimes that was different. He was to wait until he was called for.

After fifteen minutes Clint was getting antsy. Actually after five minutes Clint had been getting antsy but he managed to keep control of himself. As a sharpshooter he was used to inactivity for long periods but this type of waiting was completely different to taking out a target. This was fucking frustrating.

Just as he was about to shout Coulson’s name, he appeared at the opening. His face said it all. Clint had the sense not to comment as they made the journey back to the forward section.

***

Shelter, water and food sources for the living were now Phil’s priorities along with communications. The dead they would bury later.

Communications had proved to be a total bust. Checking through the storage cabinets Phil had been very happy to find the emergency kitbag. A critical piece of equipment, it contained everything from a well-stocked field medical kit and survival provisions to additional firearms and the sat-phone. Unfortunately, the phone was either faulty, damaged or had no charge. Usually fully in control of his emotions, Coulson couldn't quite stop the frustrated “Fuck!” that escaped his lips nor the muscle that jumped in his jaw.

Clint had tried to console him. “Don’t worry about it, boss. Just means we get a longer vacation.”

It hadn’t made him feel any better - if anything the rookie’s casual acceptance of their predicament had made him feel worse. He was the senior agent here. He needed to do a better job of getting his shit together. If Clint could compartmentalise his emotions, so could he. Although he did almost choke on a laugh when Clint added, “Besides, from what I've heard I'm sure you can make some sorta phone outta coconuts n vines.”

“Pretty sure you're thinking of MacGyver,” he responded drily.

“Maybe but you gotta be the guy they based him on, right?”

Phil didn’t _quite_ roll his eyes but it was a pretty close thing.

So... shelter, water and food.

Short-term food and water supplies were covered. Barton had found plenty of these in the galley including bottled water that would keep them going for a reasonable amount of time and Coulson had already discovered field rations in the emergency kitbag along with water purification tablets. These could be supplemented with living off the land… _if_ it became necessary. The S.H.I.E.L.D. extraction team would be here long before then.

That left shelter. Did they stay with the wreckage or find a better location, somewhere more accessible for a rescue? Somewhere less susceptible to ambush and easier to defend.

Barton had volunteered to be his eyes up high to get their bearings. It was a good plan however the rookie had just survived a plane crash and although appeared to be relatively unscathed - no broken bones at least - Phil was very much aware he would still be in a lot of pain from the sheer force of the impact. Plus there was the very real possibility that he may have other injuries, particularly internal or head, maybe even decompression sickness or hypoxia, that just hadn’t manifested themselves as yet.

But… they weren’t exactly overflowing with options; _his_ shoulder and ankle wouldn't allow him to do it so after having carried out a few more checks, Phil nodded finally granting him permission. Of course the sniper _had_ to pick a giant motherfucker of a tree that gave Phil the shits just looking at it. Despite his heart being in his mouth the whole time, the senior agent was impressed with Barton’s skill. The sniper had scaled it with incredible ease and in a short amount of time, full of confidence and never faltering. Had Phil tried it… yeah probably not worth thinking about. There were obviously benefits to being in the circus. He’d have to remember that for future missions.

Clint’s report when he rejoined Coulson on terra firma was surprisingly detailed if unsurprisingly informal. “So here’s the thing, boss. It looks like we’re on an island that’s basically a jungle. I spotted a river about half a click to our nine and whatever body of water we’re on is a lot closer on our six maybe two / two and a half clicks away.”

“Suggestions?”

Clint looked taken aback for a moment and didn’t respond. Generally handlers didn’t give a shit about what he thought. Coulson obviously guessed what he was thinking.

“Let’s just say I value your input, specialist. Taking into account your words from earlier, words with which I firmly agree by the way, “ _I don’t know how many thousand feet but… we just fell the fuck outta the sky, boss. No shit I’m in pain._ ” So, Agent Barton… do you have suggestions for me?”

Clint ducked his head and rubbed the back of his neck, his cheeks pinking a little at Coulson’s verbatim recollection of what he’d said… and the accuracy with the way in which he said it. Asshole! However at Coulson’s nod of encouragement he straightened up and put forward his recommendation. “We bury the dead, head to the river, follow it to the water and set up a base.”

Phil nodded pleased with the rookie’s response - with a few additional points it was pretty much his plan as well.

And so that’s what they did which left them exhausted, in pain and feeling low as fuck.

 

 **20th December…**  
Not the best of mornings for either man.

The previous evening when they finally stumbled out of the jungle onto the beach, they were about ready to collapse. But Coulson knew they had to build a rudimentary shelter for the night at least before they could sleep. He allowed them a short rest with some water and a protein bar then suggested they get to work. The combination earned him a sullen look from the younger man. He understood his resentment, he was feeling pretty much the same way himself but it was necessary.

At Phil’s bidding, they trudged a little away from the edge of the estuary to a rock face which gave them protection on one side. They could build a lean-to for the night and work on something more structurally sound in the morning. That was until Clint spotted something far better in the cliffside just above their position.

It couldn’t been seen clearly from the beach, Clint himself only noticed it by accident, but it looked as though it could be a cave. The entrance was hidden from the casual observer by a natural outcrop of limestone. He called the other man’s attention to it and with a tired nod Coulson accompanied him in the relatively easy climb to investigate it further. It was a small cave, plenty big enough for the two of them and anything they might need to bring from the wreckage. It would certainly see them through a few nights depending on how long it took for them to be rescued.

As for sleep that night, neither had gotten much. They were shattered and raw and pretty much on edge with each other.

They had taken it in turns, one remaining on watch while the other supposedly napped but between the events of the past twenty-four hours catching up with them and the unfamiliar noises from the jungle it had been a futile undertaking. When Clint did finally drop off he was dragged back from the darkness a short time later by his own screams adding to those of the animals outside. He hadn’t tried again that night and instead sat at the entrance to the cave, feeling the reassuring presence of the other man beside him, until the sun rose.

***

Clint was grateful that Coulson had left him alone in the morning to strip Betsy and his other weapons down, clean them and reassemble them. The previous day, as they stumbled along the riverbank following its course to the beach, Coulson had found Clint's bow case and thankfully Betsy was in one piece inside along with his wrist guard. With practiced fingers, he had quickly restrung her and kept her safe carefully slung over his shoulder. The case, now considered unnecessary baggage, he had left behind.

Working on his weapons had given him something productive to do and focussed his mind. He didn’t want to talk. He wanted to put it all out of his head for now. He would deal with it later. When they got home. Maybe.

He had no idea what Coulson himself was doing but he knew he was nearby. When Clint finally emerged from the cave, feeling not _better_ exactly but more like his old self at least he found out what the other man had been up to while he’d remained in self-imposed isolation.

“You finished the shelter,” he said in surprise.

The shelter wasn’t the only thing to make Clint do a double take. The senior agent was sitting cross-legged in the sand minus jacket and tie. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone and his sleeves were neatly rolled up to the elbows. It was almost like seeing Coulson naked. That thought was guiltily banished from his mind. It wasn’t right to think something like that while the others were… well, it just wasn’t right.

It might not be right but it was difficult not to. The sniper was having problems deciding where to look; the hollow of Coulson’s throat, the tease of chest hair peeking out from the ‘V’ of his shirt collar, or those fucking gorgeous forearms that were on display. Finally Clint managed to pull his gaze away and dropped himself into the sand beside the other man. Maybe sitting next him wouldn’t be as dangerous.

Coulson tilted his head to look up at him from his carving, a tired smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. He nodded.

“Why?” Clint asked out of curiosity.

“Decoy.”

“Paranoid much?”

Coulson snorted handing Clint a bottle of water and an energy bar.

“I’d’a helped y’know.”

“I know but… I figured you’d want to be by yourself this morning. I guess I can understand that.”

They sat quietly for a moment, the only sound was the steady snick of Coulson’s knife against the flat piece of driftwood.

“I saw a creek just off the river on the way here yesterday. How about we rest here today and go fishing tomorrow?” he suggested as he continued his carving.

“With Betsy?”

“If you like but... I was thinking something slightly more… hands on.” Coulson’s smile was a little wider, a little less tired when Clint gave him a puzzled look. Weird but okay. Clint bit into the energy bar and chewed thoughtfully for a moment.

“What if the extraction team arrives when we’re gone?” he asked, taking a mouthful of water to wash down his food.

“Step ahead of you, rookie.” Coulson held up the driftwood so Clint could read what he’d been carving. He choked on his water and sprayed the rest through his nose. And they said the man had no sense of humour.

‘GONE FISHING - BACK SOON - PJC & CFB’.

 

 **21st December...**  
Before they headed for the creek they’d made another visit to the plane for a few more supplies. In the process Clint had found some luggage. It wasn’t his or Coulson’s but the clothes were clean and a reasonable fit. The likelihood was they’d only be on the island for another day maybe two at most, certainly they’d be rescued before Christmas, but the find was welcome nonetheless.

Like Clint, Coulson grabbed some clean underwear, a pair of S.H.I.E.L.D. issue cargo pants and t-shirt, stowing another set in his backpack. When he’d stripped out of his shirt all casual and relaxed, Clint was pretty damned sure his brain had shorted out. He was proud of himself for not having moaned out loud, or made any other noises of appreciation at the expanse of skin and chest hair that had been allowed to escape the confines of its clothing.

Trying to act more casual than he felt, the sniper had tossed Coulson a pair of combat boots. They were a little too large but the older man was delighted to have them. They were a hell of a lot more practical for trekking through the jungle than his dress shoes. Besides an extra pair of socks should help prevent blisters. His shoes he dropped into his backpack.

Feeling a little more human again, the pair set off for the stream that Phil had spotted the day before.

***

Clint had seen the technique before. One of the guys in the circus, Tiny Pete the Strongman, could do it which was surprising as the guy had enormous hands but the fish were drawn to him as they seemed to be to Coulson. The way _he_ seemed to be drawn to him.

Clint was mesmerised by the older man. Not just by the dusting of freckles that ran along his arms and shoulders, which was breathtakingly sexy, but by the way he gently stroked the side of the fish, soothing it.

“Ready?” he whispered to Clint.

“Yeah.”

And with a careful grip he lifted the fish from the water to hand it to Clint.

“So who taught you trout tickling?” Clink asked him, dispatching it quickly and dropping it into a makeshift basket he’d made from reeds. “Is this a Rangers thing? Or was it… your dad?”

Coulson caught the wistfulness in the archer’s tone. He smiled sadly to himself. From his knowledge of the man it was pretty unlikely Barton's father would have taught him anything like this. His brother perhaps… before he abandoned him - intentionally or otherwise.

“No. My dad was a history professor at the local high school. Actually, he was good with his hands mechanically but… not much of a wilderness expert. Trout tickling?” He looked over his shoulder at Clint for confirmation before looking back at the water. “Nah, it was my mom.”

“Your mom? Seriously?” Clint was trying to remain interested in what his handler was saying. He was interested, but the way the muscles of his back moved making those sexy freckles dance across his shoulders was almost too much for his brain to cope with. And now, the way his pants stretched over his ass as he stood bent over poised to catch another fish. God! He'd never wanted to be a fish so much in his life. The way Coulson caressed it - carefully, gently… oh fuck! He nearly missed it as Coulson turned towards him to hand him another. He might have survived the plane crash but he wasn’t sure he was going to survive a shirtless Coulson, fishing barefoot with rolled up cargo pants.

Fortunately, the senior agent’s brain appeared to be more switched on and for the next half hour he talked about the times he and his parents had gone camping, his dad happy to be ordered around by his mom as they set up the tent, made a fire… gone fishing. Clint could hear the smile in his voice as he talked. He wasn’t making a big deal out of it, just passing on the facts as he would a mission briefing, but he’d obviously enjoyed those times with his folks and it made the younger man envious of such a happy childhood.

“So, what do you think? Four enough?”

“Should see me through to lunch. What’re you going to have?”

Coulson stared at Clint without blinking and the rookie grinned back at him. Perhaps he would be lucky and the rescue team would be there when they got back to base. Coulson could only hope otherwise it was going to be along wait until extraction. However he did catch another damned fish... just to be on the safe side. Perhaps tomorrow he'd teach Barton to catch his own.

***

The rest of the day passed slowly but not uncomfortably. Clint had gutted and prepared the fish, Coulson cooked it. Without the luxury of seasoning Clint had thought it would be kinda bland but Coulson had rubbed it with some diluted sea water and it actually tasted pretty good especially after having nothing but protein bars the day before. They ate in companionable silence for the most part occasionally talking about what do with the rest of the day. Both men were still in pain although neither really wanting to admit it to the other. Eventually though Coulson yanked the Band-aid off that one.

“Okay. How do you feel, Agent Barton?”

“I’m fine, sir.”

“Didn’t ask if you were fine. I’m asking for honesty here. Talk to me, Barton.”

The younger man considered Coulson’s request - and it did seem to be more a request than an order. He still had the headache from hell, muscles that ached from his neck to his nuts (lap belt presumably); his arms, legs and chest hurt like fuck from yesterday’s exertions but he wasn’t having any difficulty breathing, his lungs seem to be okay; he didn’t think he had symptoms of decompression sickness or associated injuries like hypoxia. If he felt anything it was… lucky. Lucky to be in once piece, lucky to be alive. Just fucking lucky.

Hesitantly he passed his thoughts to Coulson who stared at him with that intense gaze of his.

“Thank you for your honesty, Agent.”

“Works both ways, sir.” Now it was Coulson’s turn to frown. “You’re still favouring your left side - ankle and shoulder - and that head wound looks like it could do with another couple of stitches. Plus I guess we have to take your advanced age into things. You sure you’re up to all this traipsing around the jungle?”

Cheeky fucker! Coulson gave him an aggrieved look. “Advanced aged? Your humour needs work, Barton.”

“Who said I was being funny, Agent Coulson.”

Yeah… it was going to be a _long_ wait until extraction.

***

It was the nighttime and its companion darkness that brought terrors to camp.

Clint woke as the scream died in his throat. Almost immediately a strong pair of arms wrapped around him, holding him gently; a soft voice telling him he was alive, he was safe. He pressed his face into the crook of Phil’s neck and gripped tight to the other man, his breath hitching while he fought to get it under control. It was the third night in a row. Fuck!

Phil rubbed comforting circles between the archer’s shoulder blades and he could slowly feel the tension leaking out of his body. As he had done the previous nights, the senior agent appeared when Clint needed him unafraid to hold him, to give him comfort.

“Same dream?” Phil asked, keeping his voice calm.

Clint nodded. Since they’d crashed is it was always the same dream. The sudden darkness then the plane falling - creaking and groaning as it spiralled out of control, plummeting to earth finally tearing itself apart when impacted with the trees. Phil’s dead eyes being among the others staring up at him. He’d never told his handler that part though.

But by some miracle or fate or whatever you want to call it, Phil had survived and so had he. Two out of eight passengers and crew. And now they had to get through this, live on some uninhabited island somewhere south of who-the-fuck-knows until they were rescued. Or not. The S.H.I.E.L.D. guys shoulda found them by now, shouldn't they?

 

 **22nd December...**  
They’d been on the island for four days and nights now. After the first couple which, by any stretch of the imagination, had sucked… big time, Coulson and Clint had fallen into a kind of routine. They’d check the perimeter for any signs of disturbance, make any repairs to the decoy shelter - real or imagined, gather supplies for the fire, trek back to the plane to see if there was anything else they could salvage. They'd take turns cooking and cleaning up. It was kinda nice… if kinda weird. Domesticity on a desert island. Hell it was almost a vacation and good lord, Phil needed one of those.

Except at night.

Clint was having nightmares and generally losing his shit, but Coulson had remained cool, calm and steadfast. Nothing seemed to faze the guy and it both impressed and pissed the archer off (truthfully it scared him just a little too).

Until that morning - morning four - when he found the senior agent puking his guts up on the edge of the jungle.

He should have walked away; given him some privacy. He knew that. But he didn't. He didn’t touch or speak to him either though - just waited with him, grateful he didn’t get sympathy heaves cuz that could have been fucking nasty.

When Coulson eventually finished, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stood up. His back, damp with sweat, was still to Clint, his shoulder rested against a tree for support.

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he told the younger man quietly. His voice was rough and sounded painful. Must have been throwing up for a while then. Clint chose not to comment on it, instead sticking with the snark they were both comfortable with.

“What? RoboAgent defaulting to human mode?” Being in close proximity, just the two of them, had made Clint familiar with the senior agent. Perhaps a little too familiar. But Coulson just huffed out a short laugh.

“Yeah. That rumour’s still going around then.” It was more a statement than a question and he didn’t say any more for a moment. He took a mouthful from the bottle of water they each carried with them, rinsed his mouth then spat it out. The next sip he swallowed wincing as it stung his throat. Clint couldn’t help but notice Coulson’s hands were shaking… badly.

“You okay, sir?” he asked carefully. He was genuinely concerned. He knew Coulson had that nasty head wound plus a shit load of bruising and sore muscles like himself. Throwing up probably wasn't the best thing he could do right now. And if it wasn’t food poisoning (which Clint sincerely hoped it wasn’t… he’d cooked last) it could be signs of a concussion or delayed shock.

The older man nodded and turned to face the sniper. “Happens sometimes,” he said.

It was on the tip of Clint’s tongue to say ‘It happens to everyone sometimes’ but he had a feeling there was more to it and waited.

“I puke. It might be a few days later … when all the excitement dies down. But… when I survive something and… it hits me that I made it, I throw up. Usually I make it to a bathroom without an audience. Not really a viable option here I guess.” He’d tried to make light of it with the last part and ducked his head tilting it to the side to look up at Clint and give him a small smile. Even after he’d been barfing in the bushes and with his hair plastered to his forehead he still looked hot.

The sniper gave him a mischievous grin in return. “So… Agent Coulson. How many people know about _that_ little parlour trick of yours?”

“Less than you might think. You’re one of a select few shall we say.”

“Hmmm. Interesting, sir.”

Phil gave him a bland look. “Knowledge is power, Agent Barton. Make sure you don’t abuse it. Our outpost in the Arctic is cold no matter the time of year,” he said mildly.

Clint grinned at him but other than a raised eyebrow, Coulson’s expression never faltered. Uncertain if he was joking the smile slowly slipped from the sniper’s face. He bit back the snarky reply he had planned not wanting to risk it. He couldn’t stand the cold.

 

 **S.H.I.E.L.D. HQ...**  
“So how’s the book looking?”

“Book, sir?”

Fury gave Sitwell a one-eyed glare.

“Oooh! _That_ book, sir. Still some spaces left. Can I interest you?”

“Did you think I was asking to exercise my vocal cords? Put me down for December 26th at… 06:00hrs.”

Sitwell narrowed his eyes. “Have you heard something?”

Fury raised an eyebrow and gave him a sideways glance. “Don’t _make_ me hurt you, agent.”

“06:00hrs December 26th. Aye, sir.”

“If they’re still alive,” someone uttered nearby. The silence after the remark was deafening.

Fury spun on his heel to face the room. Those out of earshot kept working while the others stilled waiting for the eruption.

“Who said that? Who. The fuck. _Said_ that? Listen here. _All_ of you. Until I have confirmation otherwise, those agents and crew are still alive and we don’t give up until we find them. Is that clear. I _said_ … Is. That. Clear?”

“Sir, yes, sir!” echoed round the room.

Living up to his name, Fury spun back round and stormed out of the control room, his coat flapping angrily behind him reflecting his mood.

“Good job he doesn’t know about the other book,” murmured Blake to Sitwell.

“What other book?”

Blake just smirked.

“Oooh! _That_ other book. Who says he doesn’t?”

“What’s he got for it?”

“For annoying him too much in a crisis situation Coulson kills Barton at... 06:00hrs on December 26th.”

“Hedging his bets then.”

“Hedging his bets,” concurred Sitwell.

***

“So help me, Hill. If that asshole _has_ gotten himself killed I will make it my personal mission to find a way of bringing him back even if it’s just to tell him he’s not allowed to die without my authority. Then _I’ll_ kill him. Still alive my ass!”

“Yessir,” agreed Hill, wisely looking straight ahead as Director Fury continued his rant getting it out of his system.

 

 **23rd December…**  
Clint had asked for Coulson’s help to set up a target course. There were reed beds around the estuary and the archer had shown his handler how to make simple bosses that he could use for practice. It gave them both something to do and now that his shoulders, arms and chest were less painful, he longed to pick up Betsy again. Coulson had been annoyingly clear that he didn’t get to use his bow until he could nock and hold at full draw without wincing - and the asshole seemed to have a sixth sense to know when he was lying.

So until he was deemed fit by Coulson he had spent his time making arrows. When they were out doing their daily checks, or fishing or bringing items they could utilise from the plane, he’d picked up branches that appeared to be suitable along with feathers for fletching. There was some shingle near the waterline of the beach that he’d fashioned into arrow tips.

Then at last the day dawned, with Coulson giving him the green light. By mid-morning they’d made twenty-five bosses of different sizes and Coulson was laying out the course. Clint was going to do it himself but the older man had stripped off his t-shirt (seriously, he was going to kill Clint from a hard-on overdose at this rate), given him a smirk and raised his eyebrows asking, “Where’s the challenge in that, Hawkeye? Why don’t you go do your zen thing and become one with Betsy and _I’ll_ set up. Give me… about an hour.”

Zen thing. The guy could be such a dork - as well as being hot as fuck. The things he wanted to do to chest and those damn freckles. Although when he could focus his mind away from Coulson's finer qualities and on archery long enough perhaps his handler wasn’t as far off about the whole zen thing as Clint pretended. During practice sessions, he often took deep breaths to clear his head and centre himself and as soon as his fingers made contact with his bow a calmness washed over him. Like now. Fuck he’d missed this.

He pulled off his own tee (see how you like them apples, Coulson) and did various stretches to warm up the muscles of his neck, back and shoulders, but also to loosen up all the way to his thighs and calves. It wouldn’t do to pull anything his first time back with his bow. He didn’t think he could handle what was sure to be a disapproving look from Coulson. If there was anything he never wanted from his handler was his disappointment. Or his sympathy.

Figuring it was around the sixty-minute mark, Clint strolled back to Coulson who was waiting at the start of the course, still minus his t-shirt. As he approached the other man he swept his eyes over the area to get an idea of where the bosses were positioned (although he was very nearly distracted by the sight of a shirtless Coulson - maybe that was his plan; devious bastard).

He sighted eleven easily and another eight with a more detailed look. Some were on branches, stripped clean or still with foliage, that had been driven into the sand. Others were hitched to rocks. And some were dangling from trees whose branches hung close to the beach. They were at different heights, distances and even angles. Sneaky. Clint approved.

“Ready, specialist?”

“Ready, sir.”

“Begin at your leisure.”

***

Phil leaned against a rock jutting out of the water, arms casually crossed over his naked chest and a smirk on his face, trying to act nonchalant - difficult to do when he saw Clint was only wearing his shorts leaving a glorious expanse of muscular golden skin on display. But as the archer neared him with that self-assured swagger looking completely confident, his mouth went dry. Oh, he’d covered it well asking the archer if he was ready, his voice sounding low and steady. Clint’s eager response of “Ready, sir” had allowed him to believe he’d done a good enough job of it.

But the sudden spark of attraction that had ignited a flame lying dormant in his belly only got worse as Clint took up his archer’s stance to start his run at the course.

In what seemed like slow motion, Clint’s whole body appeared to relax and centre itself. His hips were open to the target, feet shoulder width apart, knees slightly bent. And the way the muscles of his arms, back and shoulders rippled beneath his tanned skin as he nocked an arrow and drew back the bowstring in one smooth motion made the muscles tighten in the senior agent's jaw.

Fuck! What was wrong with him? And where had this come from? Yes, Clint was insanely hot but he’d worked and served with attractive men and women before. They didn’t often get him aroused and when they did he dealt with it; he wouldn’t have made it to strike team handler if he couldn’t. And for all the rookie was a smartass, he’d really been enjoying his company over the last few days.

Coulson ducked his head and smiled to himself. He would be honoured to call Clint a friend if they continued to work together as a team. The archer was smart, more so than had ever been suggested in his reports; he had a clever sense of humour, even if it did wind him up sometimes. He was kind and compassionate... Jesus! He was supposed to be talking himself out of this stupidity, not fanning the flames. And it clicked. He was enjoying being with Clint. His body had just been the catalyst to the sudden interest.

Clint, no _Barton_ , was his asset. He was his _handler_ for god’s sake. It was wrong on so many levels for him to have these kinds of thoughts about a subordinate. Besides even if it wasn’t morally and ethically wrong, there was no way a young hotshot like Clint would ever look at someone like Phil the same way. And yet…

A memory of Clint staring at him on the plane as he watched the storm through the window suddenly surfaced. The rookie had been trying to hide it of course, believing himself to be subtle but Phil had been a field agent for a long time and a Ranger before that. He knew when someone’s eyes were on him. He shook his head. It wasn’t like that. If it was anything it was a crush; the infatuation of a junior agent with a senior and he could not, _would_ not take advantage of that. He needed to get a grip of himself.

And then Clint was off, hitting target after target never pausing as he moved swiftly down the course. As soon as one arrow took flight, his fingers were reaching for another; nocking it, pulling to full draw and releasing with practiced ease. It was beautiful to watch. He was beautiful to watch. There was the occasional burst of laughter when Clint hit a boss that Phil had rigged up to drop another from somewhere else and then, a split second later, it too had an arrow sticking out of it dead centre.

God he was good. Phil had been told he was - had known he was - but to see him in action like this was… incredible. And he couldn’t take his eyes off the archer even if he wanted to.

All too soon is was over. It may have taken him almost an hour to set things up but within ten minutes Clint had hit almost every target and was standing in front of him again - perhaps just a tad too close. He was slightly flushed and a little out of breath, his chest rising and falling as he panted lightly. Phil could see the thin sheen of sweat that covered his body, and followed a lone bead that tumbled down his smooth chest, over the ridges of his stomach muscles to disappear into the waistband of his shorts. He wondered what it would taste like. It would be so easy for him just to reach out and touch his hand to the scruff of the other man’s jaw, sliding his finger tips round to the back of his neck and pull him close enough to press his lips against Clint's.

“So whatcha think?”

His voice dragged Phil, kicking and screaming in his head, from his lustful thoughts. Probably a good thing. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could have kept himself from acting on them. Although the archer sounded pleased with his efforts, he also sounded eager to hear Phil's opinion. Eager for praise perhaps.

“Not bad,” he acknowledged with a shrug. He regretted his response immediately seeing the look on Clint’s face; excitement slipping from his expression, turning to confusion and hurt. He had to change that… immediately.

“I was told you never missed but… I count twenty-four targets hit. I set up twenty-five.”

Clint turned his body and let loose his final arrow without looking at the boss. Instead he kept his eyes on Phil’s. A split second later there was a dull thwack as it struck the last target hidden in the decoy shelter a fraction off dead centre.

A slow smile spread over Phil’s face. “I guess they were right.”

“I _never_ miss,” Clint told him seriously, a hint of defiance in his tone.

The tension that had appeared between them at Phil’s careless words was increasing… and changing. The archer’s breathing was still heavy but there was a challenge in the way he was looking at Phil. His gaze dropped to the senior agent’s lips remaining there for a few seconds before returning to his eyes. There was heat and hunger in it now and Phil couldn’t miss the way his pupils were dilating. He swallowed slowly. It wasn’t one sided.

It wouldn’t take much for him to grab Clint and spin him, pushing him against the rock as he pressed his body against the younger man kissing him until his lips were red and swollen. To place his thigh between the archer’s legs to give him something for his cock to rut against. To slide his hands over his body touching every inch of that warm, golden skin. To do everything they both apparently wanted... and then some. No, it wasn’t one sided… but it was still wrong.

“Colour me impressed, specialist. I can see how good you are against a practice course. Let’s see how you do with live targets, shall we? How about we put that pent up energy to good use and go hunting? Maybe get a bird or two for dinner tonight.”

Coulson’s bland expression and mild tone were like cold water on Clint and the spell was broken. He blinked several times and backed a couple of steps away from his handler.

“Uhhh. Sure. Need to… collect my arrows, check ‘em over,” he murmured. He gave Coulson a final look then turned and headed back to the course. As he carefully plucked arrows from the bosses, he noticed his hands were shaking. Fuck! What had he just done? Well nearly done. He was lucky Coulson hadn’t punched him in the face. He thought, just for a moment, the way the other man’s eyes had darkened that he felt the same way but he’d obviously read that wrong. He just hoped they could get beyond his clumsy attempt at a pass. Clint groaned. Phil fucking Coulson of all people.

Phil picked up his t-shirt and pulled it back on as he headed back to the cave to collect the rifle and some rounds. Jesus! That had been close. The temptation has almost been too much and he’d nearly given in. But he couldn’t do that. He closed his eyes and sucked in a few deep, painful breaths. Rescue would come, he was sure of it and when it did they would go back to asset and handler. Even though he wanted nothing more than to curl up in the blankets and pull Clint into his embrace covering his skin with soft, gentle kisses he couldn’t start something that would end almost before it began. 

 

 **24th December…**  
“It’s Christmas Eve, sir.” said Clint dropping down beside the older man. Things had been strained between them most of yesterday after what had happened at the practice course but they were more or less back to normal today. Clint was glad, as was Coulson.

“So it is, Barton. Something on your mind?” he asked, cutting a slice from a huge fruit similar to a peach they’d found on one of their excursions. He picked it off the blade with his teeth before drawing it into his mouth on his tongue. It caused the archer to pause for a moment. Death by hard-on strikes again. At least Coulson was wearing a t-shirt… small mercies.

“Nah. Just pointing out the obvious.”

Coulson didn’t bother to respond. The sniper quite often began conversations that way and he’d give him time to get to what he actually wanted to talk about. Sometimes it was just mindless chatter; other times it was more serious - something he wanted to get off his chest or Phil’s opinion on; others still it was stories, amusing and sad, from the orphanage or his time with the circus.

“This time of year was good at Carson’s. Busy but good.” He accepted a piece of fruit Phil cut off for him, biting into the soft flesh enjoying the sweetness on his tongue. He smiled as he continued. “Folks liked to do something different as well as go to church - the circus fit the bill. They could get lost from the craziness of the season for a little while, get caught up in the excitement of the bigtop.”

“And Hawkeye: The World’s Greatest Marksman no doubt.” Coulson’s eyes twinkled as he grinned at the archer.

“You can be such a dick sometimes… sir,” he pouted bumping him with his shoulder.

Coulson snorted out a quiet laugh before putting another slice in his mouth and chewing. They were quiet for a time as they shared the sham-peach.

“What do you miss?” Clint asked. “I mean being here and not back in civilisation.”

_Right now, not much. The company certainly can’t be beat, the senior agent thought to himself._

Instead he said out loud, “Soft bed, grilled cheese sandwiches and...” he looked at Clint again and the two of them said “coffee” together and groaned each understanding how the other felt. They’d tried making it but from packets they found on the plane but, quite frankly, it was shit no matter what they did. In the end they finally gave it up as a lost cause.

“Oh! And Little Debbie mini do…”

Clint jerked as though he’d been shot, startling the other man.

“Fuck! Hold that thought.” Effortlessly he rose from his sitting position and jogged back to the rocks to head to the cave. He returned a few minutes later with one hand behind his back. Coulson frowned up at him.

“I was gonna save them til tomorrow but… Merry Christmas Eve, boss,” he said, holding out his hand. In it Clint held a pack of powdered Little Debbie mini donuts.

Coulson laughed, a rich throaty sound that did wonders for Clint’s… well everything,

“Merry Christmas Eve, Clint,” he replied gently, taking the pack from him.

Clint dropped down beside him again looking expectantly at the other man. Coulson tilted his head and raised his eyebrows.

“Want one cuz… I was going to keep ‘em til tomorrow.”

Clint gave him a scandalised look. “Nah! Donuts to that, boss. Unwrap a smile.”

He did, literally. The corner of his mouth quirked up when he opened the pack and caught the familiar sweet scent of the powdered sugar. He held it out to Clint who took one and waited until Coulson had his own then the pair ate the first bite in silence savouring the powdered coating which fizzed for a second before melting allowing access to the spongy cake below.

Clint wrinkled up his nose and made a disgusted face. “Kinda gross, boss.”

Coulson’s on the other hand was a picture of bliss. “Mmm-hmm.”

“You can taste the chemicals.”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Tastes like a gas station restroom floor.”

Coulson paused in his Little Debbie mini donut worship and gave Clint a betrayed look. “You go too far in your mockery.”

“Sir… there is _no_ ‘too far’ in my mockery.”

“I’m beginning to sense that.” He held the packet out again. “Nother?”

"Don't mind if I do. So this must rank as one of your worst Christmases," said Clint, taking a bite.

Phil shook his head. "Aside from..." The archer nodded. They never spoke directly about the crash. "...it's actually a pretty good one."

"Yeah?" Clint almost winced at the hopeful note in his voice.

"Yeah. Last year for instance I was undercover."

"Oh? Weird or shitty?"

"Interesting. A BDSM sting."

Clint choked on the powdered donut. Or perhaps it was the thought of Phil Coulson and BSDM in the same sentence. He recovered pretty quickly though. "Dom or sub?"

Coulson didn't answer but the look he gave the archer and the predatory smile that slowly spread across his face left him in no doubt that his boss had definitely been the Dom. This time, having inhaled nearly all the powder, the coughing fit lasted nearly a minute. 

 

 **25th December...**  
When Clint woke up there was no sign of Coulson. Not really unusual. He was probably outside the cave or on the beach. He’d be nearby though.

Clint yawned and rubbed his hand over his belly as he stretched. He was sorely tempted to drop it down a bit further but tried to put that thought out of his head. He really didn’t need Coulson walking in on him when he was jerking off thinking about him. God knows, half the shits he went for were actually to relieve the pressure in his balls. It was hard (hehehe) being in such close proximity to the object of your lust and not being able to do anything about it - apart from the occasional bout of self pleasuring.

Trying his best to will his erection away, he got out of the pile of blankets and strolled outside. Another beautiful day. And what the fuck! A huge grin broke out over his face as he climbed down to where Coulson was making breakfast.

“Sir, you’ve been holding out on me. This is what you’ve been up to all those times you disappeared for some private time,” Clint protested with mock hurt in his voice. He’d just assumed Coulson was doing what he was doing every time he had to be ‘on his own’ - rubbing one out or taking a squat.

The older man smiled at him as he looked up, deepening the crinkles at the corners of his eyes, Clint’s favourite expression. “Today’s a special day. I thought it was worth… bending the rules a little. Besides if I really needed to shit that often, I’d say I had a serious problem. Merry Christmas, Clint.”

Clint looked at the Christmas tree the senior agent had fashioned out of bits of driftwood he’d obviously been collecting and putting together for some time. He’d decorated it with shells and feathers and other things he’d apparently found in and around the jungle. It was beautiful in its simplicity and its execution. Inexplicably, Clint felt the tears begin to well up in his eyes and abruptly turned away.

Not quite the reaction Phil had been hoping for - the first one was better. He stood quickly and went to Clint gently placing his hand on the archer’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice soft. “I just thought…”

Still facing away, Clint shook his head and did his best to swallow the rock that was caught in his throat. “It’s fine, sir. It’s more than fine. It’s just… I just wasn’t expecting it.”

Not giving a damn about the consequences, he turned round and gave Coulson a hug catching him by surprise.

The other man froze for a second but he returned it when his brain kicked in. He tried hard to believe it meant nothing, especially after yesterday. That it was just a hug to say thanks. One friend to another. Or asset to handler. Whatever. But as it went on and they both began to relax into it he began to wonder, to question it, to wish it was more. Then abruptly Clint pulled away mumbling something about needing a piss.

Phil was pulled back to his senses. “Fine,” he snarked, “but… wash your hands, rookie. Breakfast’s nearly ready.”

“Fuck off… sir,” he smirked over his shoulder, his eyes shining a little too brightly from the tears he’d just managed to hold back. They could wait a few minutes longer until he was alone.

Coulson need never know how close he came in that moment to telling him he was in love with him. He knew without doubt the other man would always have his back. He would never leave him behind, never let him down. Coulson was the father he always wanted; the brother he always needed; the friend he'd never had. Maybe, one day if the gods were ever to smile on him again, he would be the lover he'd always imagined. But for now he would gladly accept him as the boss he would give his life for.

 

 **26th December…**  
“Boss? Wake up. Something’s coming this way.”

The senior agent had his hand on his gun before his eyes were open. Heart pounding he asked, “Something wicked or something good?”

“It’s coming from the sky and I’m pretty sure it’s a quinjet so I’m saying good.”

Phil was sitting bolt upright now fully awake. The blanket fell from his body causing an eyeroll from Clint. For fuck sake! That goddamn chest was going to be the death of him.

“Time to loose the arrow,” Phil told him scrambling from beneath the blankets. The sound of a quinjet was pretty unique; not quite helicopter, not quite jet engine but a combination of both. And he trusted Clint's judgement.

“On it, boss.”

Although the shelter had started out as a decoy it struck Clint it could also be used as a beacon. He'd mentioned it to Phil who’d immediately agreed and added it to the survival plan he was keeping note of in his head. They kept a small fire burning at the cave entrance at night, all he needed to do was dip an arrow in and aim true. But he hesitated. Aside from the obvious horrors of the last eight days, the time spent with Coulson had been special to the archer and part of him really didn't want it to end.

He looked over his shoulder to the other man staring back at him, and through the early morning light he could see the intensity burning in his handler’s eyes. Coulson’s own hesitation gave him… hope? that their friendship at least would continue. Finally he gave Clint a small nod and the archer let the arrow fly.

Within seconds the structure was ablaze and after thirty seconds or so Clint could see the answering lights from the S.H.I.E.L.D aircraft as it adjusted its course and headed towards their location. He climbed back to the cave torn between being happy about the extraction finally happening and reluctance at leaving the island.

“On their way, bo… Okay, two questions. Where the _hell_ did you even get that? And where have you been hiding it? You know what, I really don’t wanna know.”

Coulson’s eyes twinkled with devilment. “Have to maintain the myth, Barton. The S.H.I.E.L.D. grapevine would collapse otherwise and you’ve no idea what that would do to Agent Sitwell. You up for it?”

Clint give him the biggest grin and took what Coulson held out to him. “Fuck yeah! Yes, sir.”

As Coulson left to give him some privacy, Barton called after him and said quietly, “Sir? Thank you. For everything. You… you kept me alive.”

He turned to look back at the rookie, that soft smile playing around his lips. “We kept each other alive, Clint. See you down below.”

***

As the rear door of the quinjet lowered the S.H.I.E.L.D. extraction team stopped their jog half-way down the ramp swapping stunned looks. Coulson was standing at the foot, right hand clasped over left wrist in front of him, dressed in an immaculate dark grey suit complete with clean shirt, tie and shoes wearing his trademark aviators. Apart from the heavy scruff and the cut above his right eyebrow, he looked as though he’d just stepped out of his office. Barton, codename Hawkeye, was by his right shoulder, bow and quiver in hand wearing his full tac suit, a pair of wraparounds and a lighter but no less obvious scruff. Both were grim-faced.

“Appreciate the pick-up, agents. Please get Agent Barton back to base and to medical for check-up. I’ll remain here to coordinate recovery.”

After a brief hesitation the tactical team leader Coulson recognised as Brock Rumlow spoke up. “I’m sorry, sir. My orders are from Director Fury himself and they’re to bring all survivors home immediately. No exceptions.”

Coulson’s expression remained impassive and he raised a questioning eyebrow.

Rumlow sighed. He knew how damned strong-willed Coulson could be, he’d worked with him enough times. “Agent Coulson, please don’t make me carry out his orders in full.”

Tilting his head to the side, Coulson raised a second questioning eyebrow.

Doing a pretty fair impression of Fury the agent continued. “And if Coulson resists… shoot him. But get his _stubborn_ _ass_ on that quinjet and back to base.”

Coulson continued to stare at him until Rumlow began to think perhaps Coulson was the scarier between him and Fury when the senior agent gave him a slow nod, picked up the couple of holdalls by his feet and started up the ramp with Barton close on his heels. The team parted allowing the pair to enter the quinjet unimpeded.

As they settled into their seats, the pilot spoke into his comms, “Hub? This is Quebec-five-niner-niner. Over.”

“Quebec-five-niner-niner. Go ahead.”

“At last transmitted coordinates. Requesting permission to return to base. Picked up a coupla strays. Can I keep ‘em? Over.”

There was silence for a few moments until Fury's voice was heard over the airways.

“ _Say again_ , Quebec-five-niner-niner.”

The pilot looked over his shoulder and nodded at Coulson now strapped in and wearing a headset.

“Hub? This is Agent Coulson requesting permission to return to base with Agent Barton… if that's okay with you.”

There was a guffaw then Fury spoke again. “Good to hear your voice, Agent.”

“You too, Director.”

“It's about goddamn time. Get your asses back here. Anyone else? Do we need to prep medical?”

“That’s a negative, sir.” There was a sudden weariness in Coulson’s words which Fury picked up on immediately.

“Understood, agent,” he said softly. “Come on home. It'll be good to have my one good eye back again. Fury out.”

All through the conversation the ball of Clint’s foot was bouncing on the deck making his whole leg vibrate. It was the only outward sign that he was nervous most likely about the flight. Phil carefully pressed his thigh against the archer’s and murmured, “You’re alive, Clint. I’ve got you. You’re safe now and… we’re going home.”

Coulson felt the younger man slowly relax against him, his leg ceasing its movement and by the time they were airborne Clint was asleep such was his trust in his handler.

***

Signing off - December 26th 06:14 hrs.


End file.
